


Control

by FaultyParagon



Series: Canon-Compliant/Canon-Rooted RWBY Fics [18]
Category: RWBY
Genre: Desire, Gay Clover Ebi, Gay Qrow Branwen, Impulse Control, M/M, Mutual Pining, Podfic, Podfic Available, Podfic Length: 0-10 Minutes, Sexual Tension, Thirsty Clover Ebi, Thirsty Qrow Branwen, Unresolved Sexual Tension, fair game, someone just lock them in a closet already
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-23
Updated: 2020-06-23
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:00:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24873457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FaultyParagon/pseuds/FaultyParagon
Summary: Clover and Qrow both know what they want. They won't ask for it, though.-aka some mindless, shameless, indulgent Fair Game nonsense.
Relationships: Qrow Branwen/Clover Ebi
Series: Canon-Compliant/Canon-Rooted RWBY Fics [18]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1815229
Comments: 19
Kudos: 95





	Control

**Author's Note:**

> Here's a little something I wrote while in a meeting today. woooo
> 
> Let me know what you think of it!
> 
> Edit: Find the [podfic here on my Tumblr.](https://faultyparagonfiction.tumblr.com/post/628026024305868800/podfic-for-control-by-faultyparagon-fic-and)

**Control**

“Clover, you dropped this.”

Clover looks up from his paperwork. A tall, lean figure is standing in the doorway of his office, backlit by the light streaming in from the hallway. His silhouette shines golden and white, and Clover has to flinch when the light catches a glint of green held up between long, elegant fingers. It’s too bright for the relative darkness which has shrouded him since sunset.

His heart races; both in recognition of the object in hand, and in the fact that he is very much alone with Qrow Branwen. He glances down, noticing that it’s true; his lucky clover pin was indeed missing. He hadn’t even noticed it before.

_Lucky me._

Many weeks have passed since a group of eight children, an old woman, and an angry crow dropped out of the sky and crashed into Mantle. Clover has spent almost every day of those weeks looking up at the figure standing before him, and he’s learned how to play it safe. He’s learned exactly how much freedom he can grant himself with his eyes, his hands, his words, his heart. Normally he would be bold; perhaps in another life, he would be braver, trusting his Semblance to keep Qrow’s eyes distracted while Clover drinks in his form hungrily.

It’s strange, how he doesn’t even chance being spotted. He refuses to risk it. He refuses to risk Qrow.

So it’s a little unsettling to watch the older man step casually inside his office, one hand reaching out to flick on lights Clover hadn’t even realized were necessary. The bulb flickers, then finally turns on, and Clover squints against it, glancing at the clock. It has been ticking this whole time, hours flying by while he hunches over his desk, filling in paperwork and regretting ever getting assigned a job that also requires bureaucracy. He hadn’t noticed the time passing.

He notices now, though- notices how, since last seeing him after their morning mission, Qrow is cleanly shaven, face smooth and years younger for it. He notices the slight dampness in his hair, dark strands refusing to stay away from his face. They frame those red eyes, watching Clover curiously, and Clover looks back down to his paperwork before his wandering eyes can be questioned.

“Where did you find it?” he asks, all easy smiles and neutral tone. He stands, perching atop his desk, folding his arms across his chest and trying to ignore the fact that his spine cracks audibly after so many hours sitting down.

Qrow chuckles, his gruff voice like music to Clover’s ears. “Outside in the courtyard,” Qrow says, stepping closer. As he approaches, Clover breathes in deeply on instinct, smelling shampoo and fresh cologne and aftershave. Shivers run down his spine, hairs on the back of his neck rising, gooseflesh growing along bared arms.

Qrow notices. “Cold?”

“Yeah,” Clover lies, trying to ignore the fact that the scent of Qrow’s light aftershave is making him dizzy. He holds out a hand to retrieve the pin.

Qrow ignores it, reaching out. “I’ll help you put it on,” he smiles, all teasing, friendly kindness. Clover is his partner, after all. For missions. Nothing more.

In his mind, Clover curses. On the surface, he smiles back. “Thanks,” he murmurs, puffing out his chest slightly and holding up the lapel of his uniform.

There is no need for Qrow to step as close as he does. Clover sucks in a breath, trying not to move as deft fingers undo the clasp on the clover brooch. Clover feels obsidian and metal and skin brush against his fingers, Qrow’s numerous rings practically raising his lapel on their own. He can barely focus- not when Qrow is mere inches away, those brilliant red eyes concentrated downwards towards Clover’s chest, fingers smoothing away the fabric and fixing up his uniform, pink tongue sticking out in concentration between thin lips-

Qrow winces and curses as he stabs himself with the pin. Clover reaches up and grabs the injured hand, examining the wound. It bleeds slightly- Qrow brings it to his mouth and licks away the tiny drop of blood, grimacing.

Clover spends far too much time watching that tongue trace that pale, callused fingertip. Later, he will remember that movement. And he will hate himself for it.

His luck catches him in the act. Qrow is distracted when Clover snaps out of it, and he quickly finishes closing the clasp on his own, his pin secure once more. Quietly, he pulls Qrow’s finger away from his mouth. Qrow’s hands are cold.

A tiny bit of blood is on Qrow’s lip. Clover hates how much the red matches his eyes- how much Clover wonders how he tastes, blood and all.

But he knows how much of this proximity he can allow himself. Any more, and Qrow will hear Clover’s heartbeat thundering in his ears; he will feel the heat growing in Clover’s body, yearning to spread that warmth to Qrow.

He could warm Qrow up.

He doesn’t.

Instead, he smiles wide, tapping his own lip. “You got a little something there. Bad luck, I guess?” And before Qrow can react, Clover skirts around the desk and takes a seat once more, waving in thanks to the elder.

Qrow rolls his eyes and waves back, heading off into the hallway to allow Clover to finish his work.

Clover does not complete his work- at least not right away. He sits at his desk and allows himself to bury his face into his hands, breathing in deep and trying to burn the scent of shampoo and cologne and aftershave into his memory. He will allow himself to think of these scents, the image of Qrow’s red eyes, blood-smeared lips inches from his own, once he is off-duty for the night. For now, he has work to do.

And so, Clover works. And it is while he works that Qrow returns to his own quarters, body trembling, arousal painful and body icy-cold aside from the hands which had touched Clover’s chest- those are painfully warm, and he wonders what it would feel like to have that warmth spread everywhere, into every strand of hair, every inch of skin.

He licks his finger, licks his lip. The heat transfers. He is not sated. But he has little choice but to go to sleep cold, because Clover is still working, and the little control they maintain over the delicate balance between them must not be broken.

Why, they’ll never know.

**_-fin-_ **

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you think in the comments!


End file.
